when a buzzing curled inside my ears--
it may have been music i forgot to turn off, in the other room.
it may have been roadwork down in the dirt-turned, workboot street.
it may have been your name
spoken from my dreams by a female priest,
wearing denim and flannel,
on her day off, smoking on the steps of Saint T's.
i get so confused--
one rain drop and i'm growing green skin,
playing midwife, saving the world.
there are days when i would barter the world away
just to be in your arms.
i grew you a song,
in a coffee can on my window sill.
that spring, each white bloom
had dove's wings and flew
across all of this blue-edged snag-hearted geography we call living.
i told them to go to you.
i gave them sweet jam messages.
i leaned out my window and screamed, hurting my throat for a week,
and then i slept until winter.
i woke in bed
with a buzzing in my ears.
solitude embraced me from both sides,
whispering a bitter catechism.
they hid your name.
they silenced all music.
they said, "you are ashes, dear,
that was when my bird-blooms came back.
all of them, soft and lovely and innumerable,
each of them bearing your reply--
"these came from you and to you i return them."
i finally understood, and that was when i went up,
vaporizing my weird guests but sparing the birds,
scorching out poems like some kind of vengeful torch.
my immediate world reduced to ache and feathers,
carbon and snow,
magic i own
magic i birth
magic i can't stop.
for Kerry's black-and-white challenge at Real Toads.